


The Slave Who Would not Perish

by Fa-Nuit-Hen (cliffracerx)



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Genre: Chimer, Elder Scrolls Lore, Gen, House Dres, Morrowind, Murder, Oppression, Resdayn, Revenge, Slavery, first era, headcanons, house [at]mora, pre-First Council, traumatic childhood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-31 12:54:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19426402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cliffracerx/pseuds/Fa-Nuit-Hen
Summary: An account of Nerevar's troubled childhood.(It's a little dark and may contain sensitive themes that are either directly mentioned or alluded to, so read at your own risk.)





	The Slave Who Would not Perish

These were the days in which Resdayn was bereft of herself entirely, long before Vehk the mortal successfully coaxed Nerevar into stealing his namesake from a selfish caravan captain. Nerevar Mora, as he later became known, did not exist.

In his place, there was but a young Chimer slave who had no name--or perhaps he had been given a name and simply never knew it.

The slave knew little of his mother and less still about his father, save that by no will of her own, she was married to an exceedingly cruel, ugly creature with a beard. When the slave was scarcely an infant, the bearded man and his friends slew the slave’s father before forcing his mother into wedlock, thereafter demanding that her son's wrists know the great weight of the Dres-shackle--for he was an unwanted, leftover product from a previous union.

Since another innocent soul put to the whip made for a hefty profit in some Dres merchant-prince’s pocket, none interjected on the slave's behalf.

Whenever bearded men and his friends spoke, they made a colossal racket--the sort of sounds that quickly came inspire fear in the heart of every Chimer. The slave, however, did not fear their noise and what it did to him, fearing instead what it did to others; what it _might_ do. What frightened him above all was when the bearded man’s friends came calling--a brutal language spoken by fists and feet in lieu of voices. The ones who grinned at him through their beards as they beat him would then proceed to commit acts that were worse still. (He had to avoid thinking about this overmuch, however, for it took him to a very dark place indeed.) 

The slave was as small as any other mer-child of roughly thirteen summers. Although he’d been fairly ugly; recalcitrant in both nature and appearance until he’d reached around ten summers, the slave might’ve had the opportunity to enjoy the paradigm shifts in his appearance that came with the territory of maturing. Like the bitter, spoilt House-mer he’d seen by and by, he too might’ve enjoyed cultivating a fluffy, flaxen cloud of hair, had it not been for the constant threat of beatings and torment. The sake of expedient escape from these encounters demanded that he crop and shave most of it, sparing only a small, wispy horsetail’s worth at the base of his skull.

Over the years, the beatings steadily grew worse, until it was deemed that the slave could do no right. The bearded man’s friends said this, adamant in their pursuits to make him miserable--but he was Chimer through and through (and Mephala was not known for leaving even the smallest of her spiderlings without fangs and venom of their own.)

In turn, the slave grew spiteful. He snuck into the bearded man’s kitchens--which he knew rightfully to be his mother’s kitchens, pilfering from them more sweetrolls than he could possibly eat in one sitting. He played a little shell-flute he’d fashioned from broken seashells--a tune which all the neighbourhood bantams found irresistible. Witnessing the proud little fellow and the army of excited bantam guar marching behind him in disorganized little rows, the bearded man and his neighbors were infuriated. (Because he’d pilfered extra feed for the bantam mob, they swiftly developed an affinity for him and heeded his call.) If he wished to see a bantam guar, the slave had only to cry out the word, _“babies!”_

These small comforts were the sole reason that the slave managed to survive his nightmarish existence, along with a little help from the other slaves who knew the bearded man’s favor. The lizard-men and the cat-men were always kind to him; willing to share with him their food and shield him from undue blame. In return, the little slave eventually perfected a method of pilfering the little bit of sugar and water-jars for the bedraggled betmer. 

One day, the slave’s little blanket of comforts was finally shattered. The bearded man had grown suspicious of him and his friends. Accused of crimes of theft and secrecy, they nevertheless spoke up on the little fellow’s behalf, shouldering all the blame themselves. Although noble, it was a choice for which they paid with their lives.

Seeing the dead visages of the only people whom he had some semblance of friendship with, battered and lifeless as they were carelessly heaped upon a cart by a bevy os insouciant Dres chap’thils before being hauled away severed his heart, twisting each half into a new, bitter, murderous shape. For whatever reason, it seemed that the bearded men were utterly determined to make him miserable. He tried desperately to reason with himself against the wicked shape of prejudice that formed in his mind, but every fibre of his being screamed in rebellion.

Vexed, the slave did as any Chimer did and as any other Chimer would have him do: he consulted the Good Three. Gingerly, he approached the statue of the rose-mother while murming fulsome praises which bordered upon the territory of flirtation, placing upon her head an exquisite flower-crown woven from fire-blossoms, stoneflowers, gold kanet and delicate, gossamer-thin sprigs of wickwheat, throwing himself on the ground in tears. Vexed by the poor slave’s straits, Azura simply sat there, her glimmering, cupped hands of crystal-threaded stone offering only pensive and perplexed silence.

Frustrated, he emerged from the Rose-Mother's shrine. Perhaps he hadn't picked enough flowers for her, or perhaps his selections simply hadn’t struck the Daedroth's fancy at that time. 

As he made for a patch of wildflowers and began to forage through them for something unusual, the slave found exactly that: a little trail of spiders that lead him toward a shrine of Boethiah.

Though she had cherished the Chimer as their hardest-loving mother, a number of Boethiah's shrines had fallen into somewhat dire straits after the Northmen invaded. This particular shrine, as he sound found, proved no exception. However, as the slave saw it, the proud statue of the Dark Prince stood as mighty and tall as ever, perpetually frozen in a great fell swoop of action, though she was sadly bereft of her hands. Before the great idol of Boethiah lay her hands and axe hewn from abraded stone upon the ground. The face of the Chimer’s Mother-Father stared down at him with pristine austerity.

Suddenly, a curious ringing sound filled the slave's ears. He then knew what he needed to do. 

A few hours later, he returned with a large, ill-gotten bolt of fabric. Lifting the axe and attempting to wrap the fabric around its stony bulk to conceal it, the slave felt as though every bone and every sinew within his body might break from the effort. Somehow, though, he managed to drag the stone-axe home, arriving back at the slave-hovels that evening before successfully managing to squirrel the axe away before anybody could be made aware of its presence.

He waited patiently through the night, rocking back and forth until the Hour of Perfect Murder, Mephala’s Hour--known to many as midnight--arrived at last. Quietly, the slave crept through the courtyard of what should’ve been _his_ clanstead. As sure as the rivers reached the seas, the bearded man and his friends were passed out in a drunken stupor in the main hall and a few nearby rooms, their presences marked by a collection of drinking-horns and vessels strewn about in careless abandon.

The slave’s nose wrinkled distastefully. O, how that heathen slumped over in what was rightfully _his_ seat! 

His heart felt as if it might leap from his chest as he crept toward the far end of the room. Steadying himself, he moved closer and closer still to the sleeping figures until he was close-- _uncomfortably_ close--to the bearded man. 

Holding his breath, he lifted the axe until it was positioned delicately over the man’s neck, just a hair’s breadth from contact. The slave then squeezed his eyes shut and, in one swift and thoughtless gesture, he brought the axe down. 

The price of the man’s heinous deeds was drawn from the wound in the form of blood which soon covered both slave and axe. Curiously enough, the cumbersome stone weapon cut as though it were metal--and stranger still was the uncanny feeling that somehow, the axe had grown considerably lighter in his hands after the first kill. 

One by one, the slave silenced the noisome snores of the bearded men and all of his kin. However, his luck was short-lived, for one of them had awakened and begun alerting the others. The slave froze; his pointed ears twitching as he heard a rush of heavy footfalls echoed from the next door.

 **_"You hesitate,"_ ** boomed a grand voice both within and without him. " **_Have you the will to finish what you've started...?"_ **

The slave was shaken by the sudden voice, the panic welling up within him and the realization that all of his deeds were in fact, genuine. All at once, it seemed so surreal and so very frightening. Though the whole of his body quaked, his grip on the stone axe did not falter.

“I am,” the slave answered. The pitch of his voice found itself driven to new heights by fear, although there was a solid matter-of-factness to his words.

**_“End the suffering. Paint the canvas. Sever the flesh, sunder the bone and watch the blood flow! Take the blood price that is owed you!”_ **

“Paint the canvas,” he repeated, his tenor taking an eerie, incantatory quality. “End the suffering. Paint the canvas. Sever the flesh, sunder the bone...” The slave’s voice filled the halls with these words, which soon took an eerie, incantation quality.

The slave then knew that in her own way, Boet-hi-Ah cherished all of her children. To this particular child, her first gift was a cloak of blood and vengeance and a veil of a fiery determination. Years later, it would be accompanied by the second: awakening with Nerevar the sword-mask of good intentions; destructively potent by nature.

Having long ago passed his meager limits, the slave’s movements seemed carried forth by a strange wind from within him. Argent fire burned within his eyes as he struck down each successive challenger. The floor soon found itself redecorated with the cloven skulls of each of the bearded men--but the slave didn’t stop _there._ Where reason was absent, anger took up brutal form of governance that translated itself in the form of repeated blows to the bodies until the mens’ bodies were replaced by a gory potpourri.

Though he was exhausted, the slave's actions were now driven by sheer panic. He stumbled into the bearded man's room. Still fully clothed, he heaved himself into the bath which had long since gone cold, for it been drawn hours ago. Being submerged in water always had a profoundly calming effect on him. Small ripples and waves produced by his trembling figure moving about in the tub seemed to wash away his worries for the moment.

Uncertain of how much time had gone by, the slave climbed out of the bath and looked down at himself. Much of the blood still clung stubbornly to his garments. As his eyes traveled down his arms, only then did he notice the cumbersome presence of the Dres-shackle. Though it was a shameful thing to admit, he’d grown so accustomed to its presence that at times that he’d forgotten that it wasn’t just an extension of his arm.

While the slave was lost in himself, the figure of a frightened womer appeared in the doorway, her expression painted in shades of fear and abhorrence. It was the slave’s mother. “My child,” she called out, “What have you done?!”

“Not yours,” the youth breathed. “I was _never_ yours. And I did as any other might do, and as the Good Three would have me do,” came his surprisingly firm reply. 

As the slave’s mother tried to step toward him (perhaps to embrace him or comfort him, the slave glowered at her dubiously in reply, taking a few steps backward.

“You were never my mother. You _let_ the beard-fiends and the slave-lords beat me and chain me up. You have _allowed_ this,” he snarled, silver eyes lambent with rage. “So do not stand there and pretend otherwise!” 

Darting to her left, he paused in the doorway before lifting the axe and severing the shackle that bound his wrist. Before he could witness her fall upon the floor into a weeping heap, he fled thereafter. She saw no more of him.

After fleeing, the freed mer took refuge in a small cave near Boethiah’s shrine. At dusk, he placed the axe on the altar before her statue and said, “I am not of the slaves that perish, and this is my proof!”

A mixture of disgruntled authorities from House Dres pursued the slave for several years. Eventually, it became clear that the skyrender patrols had no hope of catching him. 

By the time they did manage to catch up to the slave (and by then, the slave had outgrown his fear of the Dres and their great horse-wasps, age seeing him forsake timidity for rashness) he was known by all as a free mer. As punishment for his crimes, the House-mer scarred his palms and named him an exile, but this combined with the simple tale of a mer who was merely following the principles Boet-hi-Ah simply endeared him to the Ashlanders. As Vivec and others would later notice, the curious mingling of the punal scars and the natural creases of Nerevar's palm formed an eerie semblance to the weapon-words written in the primal language of dawn: GHARTOK PADHOME.

It was by these events that the Nords came to know Nerevar, whom they also named the moon-eyed, star-blooded demon of the east, as the son of Boethiah. So too did it mark the beginning of Nerevar's profound fondness for axes, a love that remained undimmed until the combined ingenuity of Dumac and Kagrenac mingled to produce Trueflame.

**Author's Note:**

> -There are a shitload of references to the 36 lessons throughout this work. My entire premise of Nerevar having been a slave was based on several quotes throughout them, including the very title of this work :D Also, it makes sense to me for Nerevar to have a personal beef that fuels his participation and role as a major player in the war against the Nords. 
> 
> -As for my headcanon that Nerevar's name isn't really Nerevar at ALL and it's something Vivec convinced him to steal from the caravan captain (his boss) he slew because he tried to sell Vivec to what was either a bad brothel or into being actually ritualistically sacrificed to Dagon (I haven't decided which yet), I'll be going into more details about THAT in later works!
> 
> -Nerevar being referred to as "the son of Boethiah" is stated in The Five Songs of King Wulfharth. "This Nerevar is the son of Boethiah, one of the strongest Padomaics." I haven't seen anybody focus on this connection with his character but I've gone ahead and done that, and I'll be going deeper with that throughout the rest of my fics, too :D there's already a huge connection going on in OMaS and Unsung
> 
> -Skyrenders are these giant wasps that folks from House Dres like to ride around on. I forget where this was first mentioned and idk if it's even official lore but I have my own misc headcanons about it, (like they are called "horse-wasps" by outlanders, particularly by the nords in the first era.)


End file.
